Order of Collapse
by Sakura123
Summary: MW2-MW3 Era. Short stories centered on the Delta Force unit through the fight against the Ultranationalists.
1. 001: Elevation Code Red

_**Order of Collapse**_

* * *

**Title: Order of Collapse**

**Prompts: "Collapse" (Sandman) / "Won" (Grinch) / "Gothic" (Truck) / "Alert" (Frost)**

**Summary:** The Delta Force Squadron through the fight against the Ultranationalists.

**Author:** Sakura123 (weber_dubois22)

**Rating: T**

**Word Count:** Undetermined

**Chapters:** 4

**Character(s):** Sandman, Grinch, Truck, Derek "Frost" Westbrook

**Spoilers/Warnings:** None

**Disclaimer:** Call of Duty/Modern Warfare is property of Infinity Ward, Sledgehammer Games and Activision. I own nothing save the original characters and this particular premise.

**Author's Note:** For all intents and purposes Delta Force is probably my new favorite band of characters in the COD and characters I wish had been afforded a little more "screentime" in the game (or more lines).

* * *

**001: Elevation Code Red**

**Date Unknown, 2016 - 07:20:40**

**? "Sandman" ?**

**Delta Force**

**Carolina, ?**

* * *

When news got out about what happened in Washington, it was hard to keep a stiff upper lip about it, even when it was clear celebration was too early to be wrought. They might've gotten the Russians on the run and practically out of the nation's capital, but with a shared disadvantage created by the EMP, it wasn't an easy task.

Sandman had been in Carolina when the nuke went off; things had been terse enough with the accusation of Americans being responsible for the deaths of a million (if not more) innocent Russians at their national airport. The typical everyman may have not thought much of it when the news broke, but everyone in a position knew the ramifications of such an accusation. The Russians wanted blood, revenge for their fallen people and as sure as the wind was swift, they came down on America like the fabled hammer of Thor.

A greater than mass genocide was their answer to the so-called crimes committed by the terrorists of the United States. Their own technology used against them, it was a mad scramble to respond as they were caught unawares. Along with the towns and cities of the East Coast, nearby military bases were leveled to point where there was hardly a chance to retaliate properly.

And as prepared as they were for the oncoming onslaught, Sandman, Frost, Truck and Grinch's base had been one such victim of unfortunate surprise; and by surprise, one means the sheer numbers in which they used to attack weren't expected. Sandman found the event to be one big blur of panic and screaming; one moment he sorting through maps, listening to the nothings of Grinch and Truck as they argued the semantics of "old sayings", the next every single part of him was standing on edge at the sound of explosions and the siren wailing throughout the base.

Locked and loaded, the three of them rushed from out of the bowels of the base into the madness where they found Derek, already in the thick of things as he mowed oncoming hostiles down in the hangar of the airfield.

Despite their best efforts, the Russians were playing to win and in a big way. Well into the next day, the base looked less like a base and more like a graveyard about to collapse onto itself. Wreckage, debris and bodies of soldiers littered the ground like a nightmare modernist painting. They had more wounded and dead than the opposition, who seemed spawn like an unrelenting enemy pulled out of the fires of hell.

"_Two, coming through on the east wall!"_

"_I got 'em."_ Truck and Westbrook's voices crackled over his headpiece, making them feel closer than a good mile across the base, protecting the armory.

"We're getting our asses creamed here, Sarge!"

"No shit, Grinch!" He did not need Grinch stating the obvious at a time like this. Between the two of them, Truck and Grinch were sure to drive her battier than the Russians on the offensive. "Grizzly, what's the ETA on that Goddamn air support? We're getting our asses handed to us!"

"_Ten minutes and counting, sir. They're on the way."_

"We'll be dead in ten minutes!"

Within the confines of the situation, pinned down somewhere between the wreckage of a burnt out helicopter and the ruin the second floor of the base of operations, Sandman was amazed they had made it out alive at alive. When the warheads were set off, power to the entire East Coast was wiped out, the chain of events borne from the explosion were as surreal as can be. Sandman and Grinch were forced into the sparking chaos of headquarters as helicopters and missiles plummeted from the sky onto dumbfounded enemy and allies alike.

A string of profanities flew from Grinch's mouth as he tripped over himself trying to outrun the crumbling walls and ricocheting debris. The two of them were plunged into darkness of the building's interior the further they went inside, they eventually came to the end when the ground beneath them imploded, sending them down into the relative unknown. The last thing Sandman remembered before blacking out was the sound of his own body hitting what he believed was the ground and the aftershock of the building falling all around him.

It was the first time he considered himself lucky to be alive. Half delirious from the realization of what occurred and grinding his teeth against the pain in his right arm, Sandman rolled over to find himself staring up into the black and gray mosaic of the world above. Across from him (or so he believed), he heard Grinch calling out to him and somewhere between closing his eyes and opening them again, his subordinate hauled him out of the remains of headquarters.

Disorientation was no help in process of accepting one of their strongholds had been obliterated by the force of mere persistence; it was no secret the United States army was stretched to its maximum after the incident in Saudi, Arabia. In the years following the incident, more and more Ultranationalist attacks seemed intent on pushing the united forces of the US and UK to their limit, as if to test their breaking point. To see their Achilles' heel exploited like it was presently angered Sandman to no reasonable end. They couldn't perform to the fullest and the Russians knew it.

When they reunited with Frost and Truck, the two looked no more worse for wear than when the battle began. "Air support managed to help us out before the EMP hit; we secured the area, signaled for any air support outside the EC," Truck explained, rolling the cigarette between his teeth. "It was a damn massacre before then."

Derek gave a short nod of his head. "It wasn't anything we couldn't handle," He answered.

"Oh, no, 'course, not. Shit falling from the sky is a cakewalk," Grinch remarked with the usual sarcasm.

"Most of our guys got out alive. The enemy is as incapacitated as we are; equal playing ground, survival. That's what counts," If looks could kill, Grinch would've been a causality of Frost's trademark glare which reduced his eyelids to slits, the mask covering the lower half of his face adding to the menace of the anonymity lent to his appearance. Sandman could already feel a headache developing in the center of his brow as Grinch readied himself to rebuke his teammate's argument. "That's enough, the both of you!" His voice teetered on the edge of calm and loose; if anyone pushed him, there would be hell to pay. "Truck, how long before air support reaches us?"

"They didn't say," Truck answered immediately. "We just gotta wait."

Well that's just perfect. Sandman lowered his head, resisting the urge to remove his helmet to run his hand across his thinning hair.

"We got plenty to occupy us in the meantime, Sarge," Grinch substituted. "There's plenty of wounded and dead to gather up."

And he was right; looking across the ruined airfield of the base, the complications of regrouping began to hit him like bricks falling in quick succession. The reds of the fire and the orange of the late afternoon blended together like a Technicolor nightmare out of a big budget film; he could just imagine their bodies shadowed by the dark, acting as silhouettes to heighten the drama. Bottling his emotions, Sandman pulled himself into a standing position and reclaimed his weapon from off the ground. "Alright, let's get it done."

* * *

**(TBC)**


	2. 002: For the Road

**002: For the Road**

**October 13****TH**** - 08:50:50**

**? "Grinch" ?**

**Delta Force**

**Berlin, Russia**

* * *

There's only so much you can do before nothing more can be done; at least that's what his father used to tell him. Soldier or no, there was always something. It's been too crazy a month and half to fully digest. Almost anything that wasn't vital to the mission-with the exception the Eiffel Tower. Now that was a spectacle of destruction you didn't get to see every day- was filed into the back of his head, ready to be lost or recaptured for another time should he survive to make good on that mental rain check.

Prepping for the mission? Ah, there was nothing quite like the literal calm before the storm. The tizzy of energy bubbling around yourself and everyone around you as they claimed their favorite weapon, readjusted their vests and double-checked parameters of their roles within the objective beyond following the leader.

Not Truck, of course. Nothing like this ever seemed to trouble his partner in the least, it's probably what made him the better shot outside of Sandman; he didn't worry himself in a knot before the time came to actually fire his weapon. Lucky bastard I want your nerves, Grinch would think to himself. Readjusting his helmet he crossed the distance of the garage to where a less than happy Derek Westbrook sat atop an unoccupied table, his legs propped up by a chair situated in front of him. From the scowl on the brunette's face was indicative that he wasn't particularly pleased about being left on the sidelines.

The injuries he sustained from the trip bomb in Berlin in the attempt to rescue "Athena" (Alena Vorshevsky) were enough to have him grounded by the medics. Sandman had been only been so fortunate in the fact that Frost had rushed ahead in a rush to secure the girl from enemy hands. The brunt of the explosion was dealt to Frost, who - against all logic - had maintained consciousness long enough to fire off a few rounds from Sandman's pistol before finally passing out. Grinch had been too angry to even crack a joke at the spread eagle position he'd found Frost in when Sandman ordered Truck and himself to peel him off the floor and rendezvous at the extraction point.

The day was won by the Ultranationalists. It truly was a bad day to be Delta yesterday.

Frost shifted his gaze away from the little birds over to Grinch; without the ski mask, gear and goggles, Westbrook was a decidedly less intimidating (and smaller) figure. The piercing brown eyes remained, yes, but bruises peppered on his equally dark brown skin painted him as vulnerable as any other soldier on the field. "Coulda sworn the doc said you were on bed rest," Grinch attempted to breach the silence with as casual an attitude as possible.

Frost started to shrug his shoulders then stopped, remembering the arm that lay nestled against his side in a sling and the padding around his broken ribs. "She might've said something like that," The rasp betrayed Frost's steely voice and narrowed eyes to a sleep-weary man. "Seeing as it took a half an hour just to get out of my room, I have no intentions going back to bed."

Grinch grinned. Whether it was the pain or the painkillers, Frost was clearly not at full functioning order. If anything, he looked read to fall over any second. "Can't get any better if you disobey bed rest orders," He said.

"Spoken like a true boy scout," Westbrook returned the show affection with a smile of his own. He'd punch Grinch in the arm but the temptation was curbed by the pinching pain in his sides that would blossom into agony at the smallest chance. "I'm just anxious, man. I hate not doing anything. Not being able to help."

Grinch nodded understandingly. "Hey, I get it. You were handed a shit deal and all for trying to save the girl."

"It's not even that," Westbrook murmured. "I went through that door without so much as checking for danger; I panicked, I didn't think. I thought we'd won, she just a few inches away and bam! I'm lying on my back thinking I've lost my arms and they go riding off into the sunset with the precious cargo." Frost shook his head. "I could've gotten the whole team killed."

"Well, that's true enough, but lucky for us we're a bunch of led-asses," Grinch commented dryly. He and Truck had been far behind Sandman and Westbrook when the explosion went off. He'd barely shaken off the nibble of claustrophobia from traveling through the collapsed building when the explosion shook the hotel.

"Speak for yourself, Grinch," Truck's voice carried itself across from the other side of the room, attracting the attention of the two men. "I'm your back up. I'm obligated to be a led-ass."

"Says you," Grinch shot back.

"That's right, says me," Truck affirmed with a self-satisfied grin. The man had little no shame, Grinch deduced. Only someone with balls of steel could look so prideful and dare to wear a helmet covered with faux-bear fur and giant ears on its sides. "How much you wanna bet the next time we go out, I'm quicker than you?"

"Please, don't embarrass yourself, Grinch," Truck replied. "You and I both know you'd lose."

"$500 bucks and a weeks' worth of beer says thinks otherwise," Grinch shot back.

"Don't you two have something you should be doing?" All three soldiers stopped cold in their tracks, Grinch's smile dropped from his face in a flash as he turned to face his commanding officer. Sandman looked none too pleased at the sight of his men jerking off in the middle of prep and was less thrilled to see Westbrook out of bed, distracting at least one of his men from their duties.

"Yes, sir," Truck answered for them, removing the bear helmet from his head. "Grinch and I are ready to go."

"Then let's get moving. We've got a small window of opportunity here and Price doesn't like to be kept waiting," Sandman replied as he headed for the little birds. Tossing his bear-helmet into his locker, Truck grabbed his gun and followed after the master-sergeant. Risking pain, Westbrook slapped Grinch on the shoulder and startled the man. "I'll see you later, man," He said.

"Likewise, Frost," Grinch replied as he backpedaled toward the little birds. "Try to get some rest, huh?" He didn't wait for a response from the injured soldier, turning away he made a dash for the helicopter Truck and Sandman had situated themselves in as it was rising from the ground.

* * *

**(TBC)**


	3. 003: Oh, so considerate

**003: Oh, so considerate**

**August 17****TH**** - 10:31:20**

**? "Truck" ?**

**Delta Force**

**Manhattan, New York**

* * *

In its present state, Manhattan was as gothic as any painting saturated in grays and black. Smoke danced overhead, sullying the air they breathed. Ash was crushed beneath the wheels of their Humvees as they progressed through the streets of the prestigious city. Truck observed the shitstorm that hit the city with a quiet kind of awe as Grinch chattered to him about the state of things. Neither of them cared much about the city's exterior so much as they cared about the people who lived here. Buildings, streets, they all could be rebuilt, but victims and survivors couldn't.

So many lives extinguished in an attack no one saw coming; that hadn't happened to them since the early days of the Bush II administration, before the "war" that would take them into the heart of the middle east. And to be attacked by the country everyone believed to be military-inept, so many years later, well - that was really took the cake for being caught with your pants down.

The Russians had burrowed themselves into New York City like a tick on a dog; by the skin of their teeth, the UK and US had been able drive the Russians out of most of the states they'd occupied, starting with Washington. Now they made their last stand here in money capital central, the tourist attraction - now a literal shell of its former self.

When the attack came, Truck couldn't remember when the Humvee was overturned and when he regained consciousness. The most he could he recall as he found himself automatically cutting himself free from the bondage of his seatbelt was the inflammatory language running free from Grinch's mouth as he dangled upside down with a dead driver right below him.

Kicking the doors open, the two of them pulled themselves out of the vehicle and shot at the nearest moving Russian target. "Where the fuck did that RPG come from, man?" Grinch was livid, fighting to keep his helmet from falling over his eyes at the same time he was reloading his weapon.

"Like I'm supposed to know?" Truck snapped, checking the grenades on his belt.

"You were sitting at the goddamn window, how did you not see it?" Grinch raised his arms over his head and fired blindly in the direction he thought the enemy was. In the medley of chaos there was a cry of a pain followed by a hail of bullets overhead. Truck and Grinch ducked in response, knowing for sure the operator had hit somebody. Truck didn't think it prudent to answer his panicked friend's question, it was pretty obvious where his mind was when the missile hit the Humvee. Checking his weapon, he pulled himself into a crouched position and searched the area for survivors.

"…Let's go! Grinch, Truck, you up?" Sandman's voice roared over the hail of bullets of explosions, pulling their attention toward the right. They spotted Sandman and Westbrook rushing through the streets narrowed down debris and rubble. "We're good!" Grinch shouted as loud as he could, ducking a second time.

The bullets were getting closer, which meant it was only a matter of time before they actually popped them. Nudging Grinch in the shoulder, Truck motioned to the grenade in his hand and motioned to the gunfire above them. Without thinking twice, Grinch tapped his nose and waited for the tiny second that would allow him to lay down the suppressing fire. The gunfire stopped, like a rabbit he sprung up and fired blindly in the direction of the gunfire's origin.

Truck stood as well, pulled the pin free from its place and chucked the grenade. Like a well-oiled machine the two ducked and a moment later there was an explosion that rocked the ground in succession with yet another missile denoting overhead against a building. Scrambling to their feet they followed after Sandman, Westbrook and Samaritan through Exchange Pl.

"This is not at all what I expected, holy shit!" Grinch's commentary kept Truck on his guard, double checking the environment as they moved closer and closer to their target.

"Stay on your feet, man, we'll get through this," He said.

* * *

**(To be concluded.)**


	4. 004: The Way of Things

**004: The Way of Things**

**January 23d, 2017 - 10:31:20**

**Derek "Frost" Westbrook**

**Delta Force**

**Manhattan, New York**

* * *

To the best of his knowledge, the conflict - or his part in it - was over. Vladimir Makarov was dead, John Price was "Missing in Action" and the world was better for it for the most part.

It didn't make the truth any easier to swallow as compensation for the prize. Death was the natural order of law; it was the way of things, acting as a contrast to life and happiness. Soldiers fought and died every day, American or otherwise noted, "good" or "bad". But no matter what you told yourself, you'd never be ready for death when it hit you or the people you loved. It would crush you and you would be helpless to stop it.

Resolve didn't count for anything; the five stages of grief were a process of self-torture and acceptance wasn't so much defeat as it was realizing the cycle was a war you'd never win and you'd lose one day. Acceptance was swallowing your pride and putting one foot in front of the other once you've realized the world doesn't stop because someone you knew isn't there anymore, it can't afford to.

Delta Force, or rather, Team Metal, was dead. His commanding officer and his friends were gone, all of them crushed underneath tons of metal and rubble, lost to the ages. Alena Vorshevsky and her father was safe, but at the cost of his comrades. Frost harbored no ill will against the family, they deserved to live just as anyone else, but it didn't make their deaths any less sour on his tongue. He should've been there, helping them, instead he was held up in this bed recovering from self-inflicted stupidity.

Why did he have to go barging into that room? Idiot.

The enormity of his own guilt made him feel sick and awkward; here he was sitting safe, on the cusp of recovery and feeling sorry for himself while people around him needed him to be strong. Guilt for all the times he'd been a regular asshole to Grinch and Truck because he could get away with it, gnawed at his mind like the sear of a bullet grazing the skin.

He was no recluse, but there were times where his desires to be alone and think in a quiet spot tended to override his common curtsey to his fellow man.

That desire to rebel from interacting with his comrades was often nasty, leaving more than a few quarrels in its wake. Truck understood it well enough, but Grinch? Well, Grinch was someone who didn't take no for answer and when he felt like bothering you, you were screwed unless Sandman was around to keep him in check.

"Westbrook."

"Yes…. sir?" He looked up from his arm encased in a plaster cast and paused. Dunn stood in the doorway of his quarters looking better than he'd last seen him via crappy video transmission. He wasn't dressed to impress, but his attire in comparison to his own made Westbrook feel criminally underdressed and a bit stir crazy. How long had it been since he stepped foot outside of the halls of the hospital, let alone his bedroom if it wasn't for a piss? He rose from his desk and nodded to the corporal. "What is it that you need, Corporal Dunn?"

"Somebody on the phone for you, sir," Dunn replied, fingers tapping against the frame of the doorway.

"Did they say who?"

"Uh, I think it's a family member or something, Foley just said it was urgent," Frowning, Westbrook stepped out of his bedroom and followed Dunn down the crowded hall of passing bodies and stagnant conversation.

It was too early to start talking about reconstruction or 'life after war'; there was hardly a concept in the minds of the soldiers here to work off. There was the past life of the routine before the gun was thrust into their hands, then there was as of yet defined life afterward. The day when they would be allowed to rest or on their laurels, ruminate and rebuild from the ruin that was the United States, UK and Middle East.

Consciously, though, he knew there would be no rest for any of them. They were too hardwired to rebel against that better nature.

Dunn led him into a small office, on the desk there was a phone off the hook, lying on its side next to the cradle. Westbrook gave the inoffensive brown color of the room a once over then shifted his gaze over to Dunn. "I'm not expecting a call; did Foley say who it was?" He inquired again. The corporal shrugged his shoulders, a little annoyed by the repeated question.

"Foley said the call came from here, just take it," He said. Derek had half a mind to argue with him, remind him he was speaking to someone who ranked above him, but he just shook his head and rotated one arm in a manner he hoped was menacing to the corporal.

Crossing the short distance between himself and the table, he lifted the phone to his ear at the same time he snapped his fingers and pointed to the door. "I'll just be outside," Dunn relayed to him, making a quick beeline for the door. "Lemmie know when you're done, sir." Dunn's voice was background noise in Derek's head before he got around to shutting the door.

Leaning against the desk he stared down at the cast on his arm, his mind traveling back to the day that landed him in this predicament. "Westbrook," He spoke into the mouthpiece in an even tone.

"Westbrook…" The voice on the other end was dry, as though he taken in gravel and sand and his voice box never quite recovered. Whether or not it was a male he was speaking to could be questioned.

Yet, to say that Westbrook was short on patience, let alone manners, would be a kindness. Meds wearing off by the minute, Westbrook was becoming antsy and snappish. Sitting on the edge of the desk, he readjusted the phone against his ear, glared heavenward and scoffed. "Yeah, I just said that. Who the hell is this?"

"John Price," Unconsciously, Westbrook stood up, the quick movement jostled his arm, sending a spike of pain up his neck and down the side of his bruised ribs. John Price was an acquaintance of Sandman's, an acquaintance he knew only through his reputation. He never had the honor (or lack thereof) to meet the man in the flesh when Metal Team was being debriefed on their next mission objective with Task Force 141 as the official contact after their reinstatement. "Price…"

"Yeah, I just said that," The older man's voice was lacking humor, but the intention wasn't missed. "Funny, how that works, innit? How's the arm?"

"Sir, I…," Westbrook glanced toward the window obscured by venetian blinds. "Where are you?"

"Don't bother, I'm nowhere near the base," Price said.

"How did you-?"

"Second nature, moppet, we've all done it once or twice," There was a lengthy pause on Price's end. Westbrook gave the phone a shake for whatever good it would do him. A lazy glance at his arm seemed to illicit a response from the old man, finally. "I was there when Sandman and the others got the Vorshevsky's out of the hot zone… for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Westbrook thought to say something to cut him off, to stop the condolences that were sure to follow with "they fought bravely" or something else describing their heroism, but he couldn't think of anything. Instead he zoned out, focused on his throbbing arm and tried to steady himself. "Thank you, sir. I… it means a lot, hearing you say that," He murmured.

"If you heard me of course," Price grumbled.

Ignoring the the jab, he stared at the shadows on the wall in the hopes to distract himself from the pain rising in his arm. "Price, higher ups are looking for you. They wanna know what happened in the Peninsula," He said.

"Makarov's dead, should be enough for them for now," Price deadpanned, the tone of his voice lost all of its humor.

"Yeah, he was found hanging by his neck, but that's hardly a report, sir," Westbrook persisted. "141 was absolved any wrongdoings, you don't have to run anymore."

"I'm not running, Frost. There are things that need sorting out on my end, things I'd rather not leave undone. The military can wait a while for my report."

"Sir, I don't think-"

"I'll be in touch, Frost. In the meantime, try not lean the arm," Price ordered.

"I don't-" Westbrook attempted to interject, looking to the window again.

"Knew a fellow that didn't use the sense his mother blessed him with and screwed his limb over nicely."

"Wait, Price-!" At the sound of the dial tone, Westbrook felt his mouth drop open in confusion. Placing the phone back on its cradle, Westbrook stared down at the desk at a loss for words and coherent thought. The door opened, Dunn peeked into the office with an eyebrow raised and a quizzical expression on his face. Frost frowned at the sight of him and snapped, "What do you want, Corporal?"

"Foley's on his way. Thought you'd want to know, sir," Dunn answered. Westbrook's expression softened marginally, with nod of his head he motioned for Dunn to leave. The Corporal closed the door and left the man to his thoughts, what little were formulating in his head.

_'I'll see you later, man.'_

The absence of Price's voice created a vacuum in the space around him; the walls suddenly grew closer to together, his shoulders felt heavy and his chest sank in on itself as he learned forward to catch the breath he never knew he lost. A shaking hand pressed itself against his forehead and he exhaled.

_'Likewise, Frost. Try to get some rest, huh?'_

Rest. It was all he could do now.

Hell.

Maybe he'd never get over this.


End file.
